


The Tables Are on the Other Foot

by warriorpoet



Category: Exit 57
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Troy abuses his power and Laughton abuses the pot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tables Are on the Other Foot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



It was a Friday, so Laughton was on his knees with a dust pan, sweeping tiny crumbs and grains of dirt away when Troy walked in to the break room.

"Hey, Laughton."

Laughton ignored him, turning the little broom on its side to get right under the edge of the lockers.

"Laughton."

What looked like something that was once part of a bug caught on one of the bristles, and Laughton extracted it with a satisfied smile.

"Laughton, this isn't the way to show respect to your fellow team members. Especially team members with leadership vests."

The dust pan dropped on the linoleum with a clatter, spilling a mass of chip crumbs over the side.

"What?" Laughton said through a clenched jaw.

Troy gave him a lazy smile. "I brought brownies to share with the team. You want one?"

Laughton snorted. "Sure. Right. I see what you're trying to do here."

"What? I'm trying to share some baked goods with you."

"Those are pot brownies." Laughton stood up and looked Troy right in the eyes. Troy, his eyes safely hidden behind sunglasses, crossed them, and laughed to himself at Laughton's stupid pissed-off face in blurred double.

"Why would I bring pot brownies to work?" Troy asked innocently.

"Because. That's what you do. Your _type_. You get blitzed on the reefer and then do stupid things to try to drag good people down into your lifestyle."

"Yeah? And what lifestyle would that be?"

"You want me to end up beside you in a crack house, don't you Troy? I'm on to you. Don't think I've stopped my investigation of you after one little setback."

"Jeez, I'm just trying to offer you a treat, Laughton. Trying to be a good supervisor and all. Get that stick out of your butt."

Laughton stepped back a little. Troy picked up the box of brownies and put them away in his locker, pasting on his best you-hurt-my-feelings pout.

His plan was that Laughton had enough faith in that stupid blue vest to think it had changed Troy. Like dressing for the job you want, not the job you have, but in reverse, because Troy already had the job and didn't really want it.

The locker shut with a clang, and he looked over at Laughton, who was looking back at him with a confused frown.

Bingo.

"Hey, Troy, maybe a brownie would be good."

"Nope."

"What?"

"Had your chance, pal."

"I'm sorry, it's just... with Mr. Brabham giving you my vest..."

"Oh. _Oh_. You're still stuck on _that_." Troy stepped closer, flipped his shades up to his forehead and narrowed his eyes. Laughton took a step back and banged hard into the locker behind him. "You know, your jealousy isn't good for the team. It's destructive. To our spirit. To our success. You've gotta move on, man. Today is another challenge."

"I worked really hard for that vest, though – "

Troy jabbed a finger over Laughton's shoulder, pointing at the wall. 

"What does that say?"

Laughton sighed. He probably knew every word on those signs off by heart. He probably dreamed about them, those blocky letters on rainbow construction paper, old and brittle like they were wisdom handed down from the universe at the beginning of time to guide every novice employee of the Quad Mart as they embarked on their journey in grocery and convenience salesmanship. 

"What does the sign say, Laughton?" 

"Yesterday's home runs don't win today's game," he recited without looking.

"You're damn straight they don't," Troy said. "So get your head back in today's game, all right?"

"All right."

"Is your head back in?"

"It's back in."

"Good." Troy clapped him on the shoulder and switched on the charm again. "Hey, you know what? Have a brownie. Gotta keep your spirits up."

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Troy. Maybe I was wrong about you. You're taking to the leadership position after all."

"You know what they say," he pointed to another sign, black block letters on red construction paper. "Things work out best when you make the best of how things work out." 

Laughton looked impressed. Troy grinned and dropped a brownie into his outstretched hand. 

"Don't make a mess, now," he said as Laughton cupped his hand under his chin to catch the crumbs.

He chewed enthusiastically, giving Troy a thumbs up.

Troy watched him eat it, and then made sure he cleaned up the crumbs.

\--

Troy was good at the express line because he was fast.

He was fast because he didn't give a shit.

Mr. Brabham had yet to realize that Troy didn't give a shit. All he knew was that Troy was fast, he didn't screw up too bad, and none of the customers gave enough of a shit to ever complain about him. 

It was serving him well, his speed and lack of shit-giving. Even with the high volume, he was able to get customers through and then get back to watching Laughton.

Laughton was stoned off his ass. Probably for the first time ever. And it was entertaining as hell.

Right at that moment, it seemed that he had become fixated on the little "boop" sound of a barcode scanning correctly. He was holding a box of cornflakes, passing it over the scanner again and again, smiling serenely to himself as the woman he was ringing up grew increasingly furious.

"It scanned. You scanned it. I'm not paying for that more than once."

"But just listen to that. Isn't that the greatest sound? It's like the store is saying goodbye to the cornflakes and wishing them well for their new life in your home. I hear it all the time, but today it feels beautiful."

"It's a goddamned box of cornflakes. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Troy snickered and covered it up with a cough. "Hey, uh, Laughton? Maybe move it along there?" he called out.

Laughton looked up and blinked. "Oh, yeah, sure, Troy. Rule number one. The customer is king!" He turned to the woman. "Or queen. Sorry, ma'am."

"I'm not paying for that more than once. I'm gonna be checking my receipt."

"Go ahead and void those transactions, Laughton."

"You got it, coach. Chief. Captain," Laughton laughed. And laughed.

"Okay..." Troy warily chuckled along with him and gave a sorry smile to the woman.

She scowled at him, then shoved some money Laughton's way and snatched the receipt, reading it like it was the roadmap to life.

Troy sped another customer through the express lane and thought that while it was great that Laughton was actually not being an uptight, rule-loving, grocery-obsessed dickwad for once, there might be some potential problems here. The dude had obviously never taken anything harder than an Advil before. One of Troy's pot brownies was sending him nuts.

But it was gonna be awesome.

\--

Laughton was staring at the change in his hand. He'd start counting it, then stop, then start over again. 

The customer waiting on him was rapidly losing his patience, clearing his throat every few seconds.

Troy wandered over, bringing his blue vested authority to the situation.

"A- _hem_."

"You need a hand there, Laughton?"

Laughton looked up at Troy and blinked. Then he blinked again.

" _Laughton_."

"Yes?"

"Do you need a hand there?"

"Do you think if they made FDR into a cyborg it would cure his polio?" Laughton asked as though he was asking for confirmation that there was indeed a two-for-one sale on bottles of soda.

" _What_?"

"I was looking at FDR on this dime here, and I thought he looked so shiny and crisp that he was like a cyborg who could step out of the coin at any second. And then I thought that might be a little disrespectful, to think he could _step_ out of it. And then I wondered if he was a cyborg, would that take care of the polio thing? And then you came over here and I asked you what you thought."

The waiting customer plucked the coins from Laughton's palm. "I don't care if this is the correct change, just let me _leave_."

"Have a great day!" Laughton called after his stiff shoulders and clenched fists. He turned to Troy. "Do you think he's upset that I didn't ask his opinion? The customer is king, right? Oh, wow. I really screwed that up."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Troy drawled as he ambled back to the express lane.

"Thanks, boss! That sure is some teamwork." Laughton said.

Troy sped another customer through and went back to watching Laughton pick through his cash drawer. Probably searching for copper cyborg Lincolns.

\--

Troy was trying really, really hard not to look like he was eavesdropping while he put sale stickers on a bunch of dented cans of corn that he'd dropped and hidden in the stock room for so long that they'd almost expired.

He was also trying really, really hard to actually eavesdrop on Mr. Brabham and Laughton and whatever conversation they were having at the other end of the aisle.

It was probably the most effort he'd ever put in at work.

"You feelin' alright today, Laughton?"

"Yes, Mr. Brabham. Feeling great."

"Noticed that your processin' times are a little off."

"How so?"

"More like how slow, Laughton."

There was a long pause and Troy couldn't help but look over, his finger frozen on the trigger of the price gun. 

Laughton was frowning at Mr. Brabham. Then he broke into a hiccupping giggle.

"I get it. I get it. That's good, sir. That's a good joke."

"I'm not one for joking, son. Customers are waiting in line a good minute longer than usual at your station. That's a minute they could be spending buying impulse items at the register. It's not an impulse if they have too much time to think about it."

"You have the _best_ business strategies, Mr. Brabham," Laughton said, sounding like his usual suck-up self. Troy wondered if maybe the brownie was starting to wear off, until he heard Laughton say, "Is your moustache a business strategy? How do you keep it so presentationally neat? Is there any kind of product involved? Like moustache gel? Do we sell that? Do you get it for cost, or do you pay retail to put money back into the store?"

"Laughton, you're doing a lot of asking when you should be doing a lot of tasking. I got a mind to start taking even more serious disciplinary action against you – "

Troy's pricing gun clattered to the floor and he was at Laughton's side before Mr. Brabham could further demote Laughton any. Maybe the next step was to take away his bow tie.

"Hey, Mr. Brabham, I think we need Laughton working on produce stock, if there's some problems with his register. We could really use a hand over there today."

Mr. Brabham nodded. "That's good thinking, Troy. Good leadership vest thinking."

"Thank you, sir."

"You pick up that pricing gun, there, Troy!" Mr. Brabham called after them as Troy half-dragged Laughton over to produce.

"Yessir!"

Troy shoved Laughton in front of the orange display and shoved his beloved fruit rod into his hand. "Here, just... I don't know. Rearrange stuff. Put the bruised fruits at the back. Do something. Don't talk to anyone."

"You got it."

Laughton was still staring at the oranges when Troy eventually gave up and went back to the express lane.

\--

Troy heard a scream and a smash that sent him running for the produce area.

Laughton was holding the fruit rod like a baseball bat and picking off apples one by one. Every now and then his aim was off, and a half-dozen went crashing to the floor.

It could have been worse. At least the scream had come from Laughton.

"What are you _doing_?!"

"Get a weapon. They're here," Laughton said, bug-eyed and shaky-voiced.

" _What_?"

"They've landed. The aliens have landed. They've taken the form of nutritious fruit to get inside our bodies and start piloting our minds. We have to stop them before it's too late!"

Troy rolled his eyes. He started to wonder if maybe he'd slipped some acid in the brownie as well and forgotten about it.

"What in the candy-striping heck is going on here?" Mr. Brabham asked.

"Laughton told me he isn't feeling well, Mr. Brabham. I'm gonna take him back to the break room and let him sit down for a while."

"Then you better – "

"Then I'll come back and clean this up, yes sir."

Mr. Brabham grabbed Troy's arm on the way past. "You let him know he's on thin ice. If I find out there's some kind of shenanigans going on and you're doing the good thing by covering for him, he's out."

Troy sighed. "Yes, sir," he said, and dragged Laughton away to the break room. 

"Hey, Troy. Did I tell you I wasn't feeling well? I'm sorry I lied to you. I feel like I've violated our trust as team members."

Troy rolled his eyes and shoved him into a chair. He filled a paper cup at the water cooler and stuck it in front of Laughton's face.

"Here. Just... stay here for a while. I'll cover for you."

"With the aliens?"

"Yeah. With the aliens."

"You're the best, Troy."

Troy didn't feel it. This was completely out of hand. 

If Laughton got fired, who would there be to annoy?

\--

He thought maybe Laughton would think he'd been in the break room for hours and that it was time to go home and he'd just leave. But Troy wasn't that lucky.

When he went to check on Laughton, he found him in front of Troy's open locker, the box of brownies in hand, icing smeared on his bottom lip.

"What are you doing?!"

"I'm so hungry. I was going to ask if I could have another brownie, but – "

"Did you eat one already?!"

"I'm sorry, I thought you wouldn't mind –"

"Laughton. Did you. Eat. Another. Brownie?"

Laughton looked up at him, focused on the question. Troy held his breath.

"I don't think so?" he finally not-really answered.

"You're going home," Troy said.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing. I'm gonna tell Mr. Brabham you're sick and drive you home."

"Okay... am I sick?"

"Yes. Very."

Troy sprinted out of the break room, trying to figure out which specific fake illness he could give Laughton that he hadn't already told Mr. Brabham that he himself had at some point in the past month.

\--

Laughton was mostly quiet on the drive, until they reached his mother's house.

"This is really nice of you, Troy. I hate to admit it, but I was really wrong about you."

Troy sighed as he shut the engine off. "Okay, okay, look. Stop being nice to me. That was a pot brownie, okay? I made those to give to you so you'd be high at work 'cause I thought it'd be funny. I didn't think you'd get so weird you'd almost lose your job. I never get like that. I'm high every day and it gets me promoted."

Laughton smiled slowly, like a spider might smile to a fly that just landed on its web. He reached a hand into his pocket just as slowly.

Troy saw the little red light a second before he realized that it was coming from a tape recorder.

Laughton clicked the button off and then yelled in triumph, "I got you! Nailed! You're going down for this, man. My file on you just got multimedia. Mr. Brabham is going to have an interesting listening experience tomorrow."

"What the hell?"

"I knew what you were up to. I played along so I could hang you on your own noose. Ha! I've been _waiting_ for you to make a mistake and I knew it was a matter of time before I got it all on tape."

Troy gaped at Laughton's stupid triumphant stupid face. "I saw you eat that brownie. What do you mean you played along?"

"I've had years of training myself to be completely resistant to the effect of any drugs. Through hard work and dedication I've _prepared_ myself against any situation like this. No way I'm ever gonna be swayed by your type. I'm never going to be another mindless victim of the reefer madness. Not like you."

"You set me up?"

"And you would've figured it out a lot quicker if you hadn't been deep in the clutches of the doobie fog. But now there's no way Mr. Brabham can let you keep that blue vest."

"Huh." Troy sat back and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Laughton was holding on to that tape recorder like it was a frigging Academy Award for Best Performance by a Grocery Store Employee Who is Screwing Over the Co-Worker Who Previously Screwed Him Over.

As much as Troy hated to admit it, he deserved that prize.

"Well, Laughton," he shrugged, "I guess if you're getting the blue vest back, you really deserve it. I mean, as much as anyone who plays such a cruel trick on their team members deserves to be a leader."

"That's how you got it in the first place."

"Exactly." Troy leaned across the gear shift and stuck his face right in Laughton's, eyes narrow and voice low. "Maybe that pot brownie turned you into more of a deviant than you thought. Next thing you know you'll be selling that blue vest to pay for your next fix, turning tricks by the Quad Mart dumpsters for spare change and a shot of smack, strung out in the shadow of what your life used to be. Could have been. Will never be again."

"No. No, you're wrong – "

"I got you right where I want you, Laughton. It's only a matter of time."

Laughton stared at him, somehow all wide-eyed fear and narrow-eyed suspicion at the same time. 

Troy smiled easily and reached across him to open the door. Laughton flinched, and Troy chuckled.

"Have a good night, Laughton. Try to stay clean... _for now_."

"You want a fight? You got a fight, my man. I'm gonna prove to you how wrong you are. I'm gonna be _managing_ the Quad Mart while _you're_ turning tricks in the alley. It'll happen soon. Just you wait."

"Alrighty," Troy said with a shrug as Laughton unbuckled his seat belt with grim determination.

The passenger door slammed and Laughton quickly ducked down into the open window. "Thank you for the ride," he muttered, then fixed one last glare on Troy before stalking up the driveway.

Troy started the engine with a shake of his head. If Laughton was gonna step up his game, Troy might actually have to start putting in some kind of effort at work.

... Nah.

Wearing that blue vest was too much responsibility to take on just for the fun of ticking Laughton off. 

Besides, maybe Mr. Brabham's red vest would look better on him.

That'd _really_ piss Laughton off.


End file.
